


Deck the Halls with Toy Jeeps and Band-Aids

by LavenderWater



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Christmas, Discussions of Rudolph, Eddie and Stan love them anyway, Georgie isn't in this but he still deserves nice things, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Richie and Bill being chaotic bitches, because fuck that guy, the losers Christmas shopping for Georgie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderWater/pseuds/LavenderWater
Summary: Before heading home for the holidays, Richie, Eddie, Stan, and Bill make a stop at the toy store to find some presents for Georgie. But not just any presents. No they need to find the best gift, the one that will win them the title of best gift giver amongst the losers. However, things don't exactly go as planned- when do they ever? Maybe the store should've Richie-proofed.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 84





	Deck the Halls with Toy Jeeps and Band-Aids

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!! Wow, I feel like it's been 84 years since I've actually been able to finish a fic, and another 84 years since I've actually been happy with the final product. But I'm honestly pretty pleased with how this turned out. 
> 
> I realize that the majority of Toys "R" Us's are closed down, but I envisioned this happening there so I took creative liberty on that and said fuck it. The perks of being a fic writer, am I right. 
> 
> This is my first time writing anything for this fandom, but these losers have captured my heart and refuse to let go. I hope you like it, and happy holidays to those of you who celebrate!!

Fifteen minutes. They’ve only been in Toys “R” Us fifteen minutes and they already managed to lose Richie. Not that that’s particularly surprising, Richie tends to have the attention span of a golden retriever at the best of times, so putting him in a toy-infested playland was bound to end up like this. Honestly, Eddie’s not shocked, though he is a little surprised that it took fifteen minutes for his boyfriend to wander off as opposed to the typical five.

He’s also a little baffled that it took so long to realize that the blabber mouth had stopped blabbering. It had been pretty much nonstop since they’d stepped foot in the store- Richie switching between topics like it was a game of hot potato, taking turns between complaining about his last final taking place a mere three hours before they were to depart for Derry for Christmas break and bragging about the epic-ness of the present he’s getting for Georgie- a present he hasn’t even picked out yet, but go off, babe. Of course, all of that was accompanied with the usual curses and a brief intermission comprised mainly of your mom jokes. 

“I think we l-lost, Richie,” Bill announces.

“Huh,” Stan says, tone uninterested as ever as he examines a bag of multicolored marbles. Deeming them unworthy as a gift for a seven-year-old, he settles them back into their spot on the shelf and looks around them with a shrug. “And here I thought I’d finally gone deaf.”

Eddie snorts, knocking his elbow against Stan’s side. “I think you’re asking for a bit much from a Christmas miracle, dude.”

Stan gives him a considering look, acquiescing with a small nod before grabbing Bill’s hand, twining their fingers together and starting back down the aisle.

“N-no,” Bill says over his shoulder as they walk, “a tr-true stretch for a miracle would be Ri-Richie not being able to t-talk in general.”

It’s meant as a joke, but it leaves a woolly taste in the back of their mouths like chocking on a mildewed Brillo pad. Because that hadn’t been a joke at the beginning of the semester when Richie worked himself into such a tizzy over a heavily weighted project for his behavioral neuroscience class that he was barley sleeping or eating. Eventually, it progressed into a bad, almost flu-like cold and Richie had lost his voice for a week.

Stan had been the first one to break, pumping spoonfuls of honey down Richie’s throat any chance he got. Eddie broke into his stash of medicines- both over the counter and prescribed- while Bill made several calls to Mike in an attempt to discover some remedies they hadn’t thought of yet because over the years Mike had become the established friend to call on in a crisis.

Even with all of that, it had still taken a week before Richie could get any words out, and another week and a half before it sounded like something other than a scratchy croak. Once he was feeling a little better, Richie got a kicked out of it, dubbing it his “smoking grandpa” voice. He still occasionally tries to replicate it when the moment strikes.

Eddie’s nose wrinkles in distaste at the memory of the longest, quietest week of his life, and he watches as Stan and Bill’s joined hands tighten, though it’s impossible to tell which one is giving the comfort and which is receiving. Eddie thinks- not for the first time- that that’s why their relationship works so well. 

He’s just about to say something, but he has no idea what because as soon as he opens his mouth, he’s cut off by an obnoxious beeping that resembles the honking of a bright red clown nose. The sight he’s met with when he turns around takes all of the words from his mouth. Well, all but seven that is.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says as he watches Richie slowly approach.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Stan laments as he turns and takes in the sight himself while Bill practically bursts at the seams with laughter.

Richie’s slowly driving towards them, long legs crammed into a bright pink jeep meant for children to ride in. He’s so fucking smushed in it that his knees are almost at level with his shoulders, his arms tucked between his legs where they’re spread to reach the steering wheel. And that’s not even the most ridiculous looking part, though it’s a strong contender. No, that honor goes to the red sunglasses with Elmo’s face printed around the frames that are perched on the tip of his nose, fighting for dominance of Richie’s face with the thick framed block glasses he always wears so he can see farther than five inches in front of his face.

Pulling up beside them, Richie hits the brakes, which honestly seems complicated considering his feet are about five sizes bigger than the manufacturers anticipated. Once he successfully gets the car stopped, he turns to look at them, megawatt smile lighting up his face. "Get in losers, we're going Christmas shopping."

Stan and Eddie stare at him in varying degrees of amusement. Bill on the other hand whoops loudly in joy and runs around to the passenger side, hopping into the tiny car, his long legs banging into the small windshield and dashboard as he squishes into the seat next to Richie.

"Knew I could count on you to take a ride, Big Bill," Richie tells him with a wink, pushing his sunglasses back into place and handing Bill a pair of his own- Beauty and the Beast, yellow with red roses in glass jars decorating the arms.

Bill unhooks the glasses. "O-onward," he declares, sliding the glasses artfully up the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. "Drive, bitch."

"Your wish," Richie says, leaning over and smacking a wet kiss to Bill's cheek, "is my command."

Revving the engine back up, Richie throws his arm around Bill's shoulders, slumping back in the seat- or attempting to slump back given the space is way too fucking tiny for one let alone two full-grown boys- like a cool guy in an 80's film. It works, if the definition of cool suddenly changed in the dictionary to fit someone wearing Elmo sunglasses complete with price tag knocking into their cheekbone, tacky holiday sweater depicting a menorah holding hands with a Christmas tree and happily declaring “Hanukkah Matata” in green fringe, and driving a car meant for children age 5-7. So… if the definition suddenly changed to that of a dork. Richie is a dork.

Eddie's dork, though. That's an important distinction.

Simultaneously, Bill and Richie turn to look at Stan and Eddie, faces blank and cool as they take in their boyfriends.

"Buenos Dias, bitches," Richie says, tilting his chin up in a nod.

"Don't wait up," Bill adds with a sniff, and they take off, driving at a whopping 5 miles per hour down the rest of the aisle and around the corner out of sight.

Eddie continues to blink at the cage of balls in the center aisle where his idiot boyfriend and friend had just passed moments before, feeling like someone surveying the damage after a freak hurricane. Sometimes it’s like that with Richie; he has hundreds of different layers, and Eddie cherished every single one.

"Do you ever just... look back at high school you and wonder what the ever-loving fuck he was thinking falling in love with them?" Stan wonders. "Because I do. At least once a day," he continues, turning to look Eddie dead in the eye with the force of an exhausted parent, " and I'm having one of those moments right now."

Eddie bursts out laughing at the anguish in Stan's voice and eyes. When the corner of Stan's lips twitch up like he's fighting a smile, Eddie's done for: clutching his sides and leaning against the shelf behind him for support as he laughs so hard he snorts. He has a fleeting moment of mourning over the fact that Richie's not there. Snort-laughs are a personal favorite of his Eddie laughs, especially when he's the reason behind them. He'll be sad he missed it.

"Oh, Stan," Eddie wheezes, "I've been experiencing that since kindergarten when Richie ate a worm in his sad attempt to impress me." Eddie rolls his eyes at the memory, just like he does every time he thinks about it.

They hadn't even met, hadn't even spoken two words to each other, when five-year-old Richie came running over to where Eddie was sitting on the bottom of his favorite yellow slide, skimming his sneaker over the top of the small puddle at the bottom, and proceeded to swallow the still wiggling worm while staring Eddie dead in the eye.

According to Richie many years later, he used to spend recesses watching Eddie in fascination, trying to figure out a way that he could keep him for himself. The worm thing was a last-ditch effort that he thought would make him look cool and bad ass. All it effectively did was ensure that Eddie refused to talk to the strange boy for two months.

Of course, that doesn't mean that Eddie didn't let him stick around, letting Richie sit with him on his favorite slide, saving him a spot on the story time rug, and even sharing his Scooby snacks with him when Richie forgot to bring lunch. In fact, the first thing Eddie ever said to Richie as he slid half of his Lunchable across the cafeteria table was "here, so you don't have to eat any more worms." A blinding, front tooth missing smile had been Eddie's reward, and he couldn't help but smile back as his heart squeezed.

From that moment on, Eddie was Richie's. And Richie had always been Eddie's. Right from the start.

"You know," Stan says pulling Eddie from his thoughts, "we have the car keys. We could always just leave them here. They probably wouldn't even notice."

"True," Eddie allows, hooking his arm with Stan's as they start walking again, "but they would eventually and then they'd probably buy that shitty little thing and drive it back to the dorms."

Stan snorts. "Oh, they absolutely would. I can see it now. Breaking news: two boys make a break for it on the highway in a children's toy. Police currently in pursuit." He waves his hand in front of them like he's painting a picture, a smirk dancing on his lips.

"They'll be famous," Eddie smirks.

They pause in the stuffed animals section. Eddie rubs the plush ear of a leopard between his fingers, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as he debates whether or not Georgie would like something like this. Well, he'll like it, sure, but is it best gift worthy? Probably not.

Eddie drops the ear with a sigh. "What're you gonna get Georgie?" he asks, letting himself be pulled away from the plushies.

"I don't really know," Stan laments, weaving them through the model trains setup, "I was thinking about maybe getting the mad scientist play dough set we saw up front but…" he trails off with a shrug.

Eddie knows exactly what he means. Choosing something for Georgie is always hit or miss. One year the winning gift was a book on different types of lightning courtesy of Mike. Another year he went feral over a vintage Shrinky Dink Bev had bought on eBay. One good thing you can say about it is Georgie is a simple kid- he likes what he likes regardless of quantity or money spent.

All of the losers have won at least one declaration of Christmas champion, though by far the running champs are Bill, Stan, Eddie, and Richie. How can they not be what with Georgie himself declaring from the age of three that they were his three best friends and Bill was his best best.

"I heard Ben's getting him an Easy Bake Oven." The pair had started baking together over summer break. Needless to say, Ben's in pretty good standing for a win.

"Yeah," Stan nods. "I talked to Bev last week and it sounds like she's planning on giving him one of those freaky ass Hatchimal things. Guess it's Toothless from that one dragon movie he loves. And Bill's doing that boat building kit."

"So, basically, what you're saying is we're screwed."

Stan opens his mouth, sucking in a breath like he's about to argue but then thinks better of it. "No, yeah, actually we probably are. You know what, fuck it," he says, grabbing the mad scientist play dough set from the shelf and tucking it securely under his arm, the one not currently wrapped together with Eddie's, "I'm gonna go with this. I have a good feeling about it."

"Well that makes one of us." Stan cuts his eyes at Eddie and he widens his own as he realizes what he said. "One of us that found a gift, not one of us that thinks it's good," he hastily corrects.

“Sure, Eddie, whatever you say,” Stan says fondly.

They walk through a few more aisles, idly talking and searching for a gift Eddie can give before they hear the hackle-raising beep of that fucking horn again. This time it comes from directly behind them, prompting them to break apart, scattering to opposite sides of the aisle to narrowly miss getting ran over- not that it would be particularly painful, but still.

Bill stutters out a quick “sorry, babe” to Stan while Richie simply blows them both an exaggerated kiss- though for Eddie it’s more of a palm lick than a kiss- as they drive by.

“I hate them,” Stan deadpans.

"It's like dating children."

"No, _I'm_ dating a child," Stan says, shaking his head in exasperation as Richie and Bill drive around the corner to the Barbie aisle, honking the horn again as they almost run into an old woman struggling to carry a dream playhouse. "You," Stan points at him, " _you_ are dating a toddler on crack. And nobody likes a toddler on crack, except his mom and that one weird babysitter who gets paid way too much and never quits."

"Let me guess, I'm the babysitter in this scenario?" Eddie asks just as a loud crash of plastic and metal rings throughout the store followed by Richie's loud voice calling for the paramedics. He’s doing the fucking British guy, making Eddie’s shoulders fall because he only ever uses that one when somebody’s hurt and he’s trying not to panic.

"Yep. And, unfortunately," Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "unfortunately, I'm the mom." And with that, he sets off, using the sound of Richie’s voice and clanging plastic as a guide to find their idiots.

The sight that greets them when they round the corner is anything but a surprise. The little toy jeep is halfway overturned, the only thing holding it up at its titled angle the driver’s side door, which is leaning against the metal bottom of the shelf holding the bike helmets.

How fitting.

Bill is in the process of wiggling himself free from the car, a difficult feat considering that his side of the car is currently sticking up in the air, giving him nothing to grab onto and nowhere to set his foot even if he somehow manages to break free on his own.

Immediately, Stan is at his side, wrapping his arms around Bill’s waist, allowing him to use Stan’s chest as an anchor to lean on for support so he doesn’t risk falling as he navigates his way back to the tacky linoleum floor covered in stickers and toddler saliva. With Stan’s boyfriend taken care of, Eddie can worry about his own, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the reason behind the emergence of the British guy.

Where Bill’s side of the car had been launched into the air, Richie’s had been slammed into the shelf, taking the brunt of the accident and trapping Richie not only in the car but against the unforgiving tan metal as well. With little more than a cursory glance, Eddie can already tell that he’s riddled in scrapes and cuts and he’s going to be blooming some pretty wicked bruises like a galaxy of constellations on his pale skin later. There’s a streak of red painting the shelf, indicating that some of the little cutout holes in the front of the shelf tore Richie’s elbow open in his scramble to get out of the car. And despite that, he’s still trying to awkwardly climb out of the jeep using his elbows.

“Rich, you need to stop moving,” Eddie says as he moves around Stan and Bill to kneel down beside his boy, pushing the curls off of his forehead in a soft gesture that he uses whenever he needs to calm Richie down.

Like always, it works like a charm. The fight instantly leaves Richie, his shoulders sagging and the tension seeping from him. “Eddie Spaghetti,” he pants, relief painting his words, “Thank god, the doc-tah is ‘ere to save us.”

He gives Richie a reassuring smile. He’s still pulling out voices, but then again when isn’t he. At least it’s no longer the British guy. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“What the hell happened?” Stan grunts, a little winded from holding Bill up while he struggles, kicking his foot repeatedly to get the purple and green checkered shoelace of his converse free from the spot on the dashboard where it’s snagged.

“Does it really matter, Cocker Staniel? Once we were upright and now we’re not. Not really much else to it.”

“W-we took the corner too f-fast and skidded into the shelf,” Bill reports absently as he continues to shake his foot. It finally lets loose and the pair almost falls to the floor with the force of the momentum.

“You didn’t think to use the brakes,” Stan snarks, hands on his knees, breathing a little harsher after his almost brush with the floor.

“Pssh, brakes are for old ladies and pussies, both of which I am not,” Richie brushes off. “Now, as much fun as I’m having losing feeling in my legs, I would also like to be freed from this death trap like our dearest damsel, Billiam.”

“Right. Ok. We need to get the car back on four wheels. Stan take the front, Bill get the side, and I’ll take the back,” Eddie directs, ushering his friends to their respective spots with a wave of his hand.

“That’s what she said,” Richie snickers as they take their places. Stan drops his hands from their grip on the windshield and stands up ramrod straight, shooting a pained glance at Eddie at the back bumper. He can practically see Stan’s soul threatening to leave his body as Richie has the audacity to hold his hand up, wiggling his fingers in front of Stan’s face for a high five. Stan wraps his fingers around his wrist and pushes his hand back down, never breaking eye contact with Eddie. 

“Beep, b-beep, Richie,” Bill warns with an eyeroll and a smirk. It’s obvious that this whole thing is beyond amusing to him. He’s not even trying to hide it at this point.

Another moment of silent communication happens before Stan steps back up to the jeep and wraps his fingers around the gray plastic bar spanning between the headlights, and they work to get the fucking thing back onto all four wheels. Even with all three of them pulling on it and Richie pushing up against the shelf underneath him, it takes quite a bit of effort. For a hunk of plastic meant to carry five-year olds, this thing is heavy. 

As soon as it’s righted, Richie’s instantly squirming to get out. He hisses through his teeth when his bloody knee bashes into the steering wheel, leaving a smear of red. Together, they manage to get him out without inflicting anymore damage, setting him down on the shelf so his wounds can be tended to. Eddie’s careful to make sure he doesn’t sit on the part of the shelf that was dented in from the jeep smacking into it, and then starts on his examination, taking note of the various abrasions.

Behind him, Stan takes Bill’s face in his hands, tracing his thumbs over his cheekbones as he surveys for any injuries. Bill wraps his fingers around Stan’s wrists and murmurs reassurances to him until his boyfriend finally seems appeased, turning back to Eddie and Richie.

“We’re gonna take this thing back where it came from,” Stan says, kicking the back of the jeep, “that way when the staff eventually find their way over to investigate you can just say the klutz tripped or something. You’ve got him, right?” Concern paints Stan’s eyes a shade deeper as he takes Richie in again. Apparently, he wasn’t kidding about being the mom earlier; he looks for all intents and purposes exactly like a mom leaving her injured baby to be looked after by someone else. Ironically by Eddie, the babysitter.

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” Eddie assures, then tacks on under his breath, “I’ve always got him.”

Fingers brush delicately along his jaw and he looks up to see Richie beaming down at him, soft smile dancing on his lips and blue eyes crinkled with affection, having caught the quiet utterance.

“I’ll drive,” Bill declares proudly, moving to get back inside the forgotten jeep, this time on the driver’s side, and Stan stops him with a hand placed firmly on his chest.

“Like hell you will,” he says, slipping in between Bill and the car. “We’ve talked about this, baby,” he says softly when Bill pouts up at him, “you can do math, so that means…”

“That I can’t drive,” Bill finishes petulantly like they have, in fact, had this very same discussion many times before and reached this very same conclusion. The disappointment only lasts for a moment, though, giving way to a burst of light in his eyes, like a blind man seeing the stars for the first time, when Stan reaches over his shoulder to grab a helmet from the rack Eddie and Richie are sitting under and sticks it over Bill’s auburn hair, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose as he hooks the strap under his chin.

“Don’t want to damage the cargo,” Stan explains, squeezing himself behind the steering wheel, and Bill laughs in delight, grabbing a helmet of his own as he rounds the car and places it on Stan’s head as he hops back in the jeep himself. And then they’re off with a final concerned glance over their shoulders.

“You’re a hot mess,” Eddie declares, dropping to his knees and unzipping his fanny pack to start rummaging for the first aid supplies he always keeps in the middle pocket.

A voice in the back of his mind is screaming at him about germs and detergent types he’s going to need to wash his jeans in to even get a semblance of sanitation back in the denim. It sounds strikingly like his mother, and he’s gotten good at tuning her out over the years, especially when it concerns Richie. Eddie’s always been able to tone down some of his hypochondriac tendencies where Richie’s concerned- licking from his bomb pops, helping him wash his hair during low periods. He can sit on a nasty, sticky, germ-infested floor of a Toys “R” Us to patch his boy back together again, no problem.

“Aww, as long as you think I’m hot, Spaghetti.” There’s a hint of pain in his voice, but the smile that spans from his chapped lips to the electric blue of his eyes tells Eddie that he’s traced the chain of Eddie’s thoughts and that the gesture is appreciated.

Eddie huffs softly, affection bleeding into everything he does, like always. “Oh, I think you’re something alright.”

Reaching up, he swipes Richie’s curls from his forehead, placing a soothing kiss to the warm skin he finds there. He’s already cataloguing the different types of ibuprofen and Tylenol he has in his pill case to help fight off the low-grade fever when Richie presses his lips to the skin just above Eddie’s Adams apple where it’s angled perfectly in front of him, begging to be touched. To be touched by Richie specifically, and that thought always shoots a little thrill down his spine. 

“Ok,” Eddie says, pulling back, “I need you to hold still. This might sting… and by that I mean it most definitely will,” he warns, holding up the packets of individual alcohol wipes for Richie to see.

“I trust you, babe. Do whatever you need to do; you’re the doctor.” He nods his consent but still flinches, sucking in a hissed breath through his teeth when the wipe makes contact with the broken skin of his elbow. Of the two wounds, Eddie deemed the one on his elbow to need more immediate attention, mostly based on the fact that the skin was ripped open by the rivets on a dirty shelf while his knee was sliced by a plastic knob in the jeep. Both are in serious need of disinfecting, just one clearly needs to take precedence.

When his elbow is deemed to be in good enough shape not to contract tetanus or hepatitis or whatever else kids carry around on their grubby little fingers, Eddie moves on to the scrape on Richie’s knee, rolling up the sleeve of Richie’s holiday sweater to let the area dry while he gives the same treatment to the other wound. It’s less hassle because he doesn’t have to fight with the material, just open the hole in his skinny jeans a little wider and sets to work.

All the while, Richie’s distracting himself with running his fingers idly through Eddie’s hair- it’s getting more curl defined since he’s started letting it grow and Richie’s more than a little jazzed about it- and twining the fingers of his other hand through the black rubber bracelets Richie gave him, the ones that match the bracelets decorating Richie’s thin wrists. He admires the way the dark purples and blacks on his nails contrast with the pale skin covering the slight hummingbird beat of Eddie’s pulse point while he mindlessly sings along to the Christmas carols playing over the loud speakers.

“You know,” Richie says suddenly, startling Eddie a little as the off key singing stops and the fingers twisting in his hair freeze, “if I spent my life being tormented and banned from playing any reindeer games, I would simply tell Santa to fuck off. He could find a way to save Christmas his bitch ass self. Like, RIP to Rudolph but I’m different.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, thinks about if for a moment while the lyrics wash over him. “No, yeah I actually agree with that,” he says, slipping the used alcohol wipes into a ziplock bag to be thrown away. “You just know that Santa knew the shit that was going down. He was absolutely fine with everyone making fun of Rudolph because he was a freak, but as soon as they find a way for him to be beneficial to their agenda suddenly it’s all ‘you’re the best’ and ‘what would we do without you’. Utter bullshit. Like do they seriously expect him to just get over his childhood trauma and forgive everyone when the only lesson they learned was ‘oh shit, we could’ve been using him all along’?”

“Exactly!” Richie exclaims, pleased beyond belief when Eddie starts talking a million miles a minute, hand aggressively punctuating his point during his rant. It’s one of his favorite Eddie things, although to be fair his list of Favorite Things About Eddie is mostly comprised of thousands of items all of which have the title of #1. “They’re just replacing one type of mistreatment for another. If anything, this song should be Rudolph’s villain origin story. Not some tale with the moral of stick it out ‘til people finally realize how useful you are.”

“God, can you imagine,” Eddie snorts, pausing in his perusal of the band aids he has to catch Richie’s eye, taking in the mirth shining there like the north star.

“Oh, I absolutely can,” Richie says, delighting when it elicits another laugh from Eddie. Eddie laughs are absolutely at the top of his Eddie list, definitely one of his personal favorites- the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, the way his mouth twitches, the way Richie’s body temperature jumps about ten degrees like the aftershocks of a sip of hot chocolate pumping through his veins. It’s… indescribable. Incomparable. It’s Richie’s all time favorite. Like he was made to make this boy happy.

“Rudolph would be the only one able to actually see in the fog,” Richie continues, voice pitched to weave the story together perfectly, “and he uses his superpower to follow Santa’s path and steal the presents he leaves behind. All the while, Santa’s running into buildings and shit, just absolutely bitching at the other reindeer for pissing Rudolph off so much. I would pay to see that,” he says dreamily. “Hey, maybe we can get Big Bill to write one of his short stories about it.”

“Maybe, but only if you want it to end shitty,” Eddie says, settling on which band aids he’s going to use and pulling them out to line up along Richie’s uninjured thigh. They’re the Marvel band aids Eddie bought over the summer, partly for Georgie and partly for Richie, and maybe partly because Marvel heroes fucking kick ass.

The first band aid Eddie applies is Black Widow themed- Richie’s favorite- to his knee, quickly followed up with Iron Man and Captain America, one on top of the other because he knows it will bring an endless amount of unbridled glee to his boyfriend since he’s convinced the two heroes are fucking. Eddie covers the split skin until there isn’t an open spot left on his knee, no trace of blood or even the slightest hint of red from the inflamed skin surrounding the scrapes, and moves on to repeat the process with his elbow.

When he’s done, he sits back on his heels to take in his handiwork.

It’s not too shabby. Overall, the hero band aids blend in pretty well with Richie’s aesthetic, matching up perfectly with the light blue novelty socks covered in red bowls of pasta asking to send noods that Eddie bought him to cover the gap on his ankles where his pants don’t come down all the way. He looks like a walking disaster, covered in the patches of Eddie’s love like a homemade quilt. It makes his chest glow as flowers of affection and pride bloom in his heart like daisies pushing through the concrete.

To Eddie, there’s a clear statement being communicated: This is mine. I take care of it in all its weird glory.

On impulse, Eddie leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the plethora of band aids spanning Richie’s knee, sealing a kiss to the adhesive directly over the intertwining lines of the arc reactor. Eddie thinks there’s something to be said there. Something beautiful and sappy about how the arc reactor is the thing that keeps Tony Stark’s heart beating, the one force in the world that keeps him alive, and here it is plastered to Richie’s knee like it isn’t a symbol for everything Eddie’s ever felt in his heart for this boy since he was five years old.

“There,” Eddie murmurs, throat only a little thick with emotion as he tries to get the words out. He clears his throat. “All better.”

“Of course, it is,” Richie responds, “You’re a miracle worker when you’re on your knees, Eds.”

“God, you are the actual worst,” Eddie says in a way that suggests he means the exact opposite.

“And yet you love me anyway,” Richie singsongs happily. “So, you think I’m gonna make it?” he asks, struggling to stand up from his low perch on the shelf, wrestling against his baby giraffe legs and the dull ache that set in his joints from the crash. Jesus, he’s getting old. Nineteen going on Ninety. Somehow that doesn’t sound like the title of a fun, sexy movie.

“Yes, unfortunately you will live to annoy me another day.” Eddie gives him a considering look before stretching up on his tip toes to press a kiss to the underside of Richie’s jaw. “You really need to be more careful, baby.”

“Eh, probably,” Richie waves off, tangling his fingers tightly with Eddies, giving them a squeeze and tugging him along to go find where Bill and Stan made it off to. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides,” he says, turning to Eddie with a sly grin and an eyebrow waggle, “I have an incredibly sexy doctor to patch me up with fanny pack band aids and kisses. What more could I ever need.”

“I’m not a doctor. I’m pre-med, asshole,” Eddie reminds him for the millionth time since starting his program. But he can’t fight the smile threatening to overtake his face as he playfully bumps his shoulder against Richie’s, following him blindly through the toy store like he’d follow him to the ends of the earth, because “Yeah, you’ve got me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @misspanicdead -it's a bit of a shitshow over there and i'm a little awkward, but i'm always up to talk if you want.


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